Chapter 52
The Plan
“You can imagine what an artful man would do; and with this guide, perhaps, may recollect what you have seen him do.”
Jane Austen, Persuasion
Devon was familiar with his own anger. He knew the rush and the burn of it. Knew the way it tightened his sinews and sharpened his vision, even as it dulled all sense of right and wrong. The way it demanded action and would not be denied.
But not like this. Never like this. Anger had never burned so strong in his blood and in his brain; never made him want to howl like a madman and tear down walls like he did now.
All because Clara was sitting beside him in the carriage, cold and quiet, putting up a mask to hide how badly her heart was breaking.
Clara was looking out at the rain spattering against the carriage windows because if she looked at him, she would begin to cry, and she would not permit herself to do such a thing in front of strangers.
And she wanted to cry. She wanted to rage, like he did.
He could see it in her. He had seen her rage over incompetence, unkindness, and sheer, stupid stubbornness.
He understood down to his bones what she felt because her sister and this Mr. Spence had decided that they would rather try to get what they needed by theft than by asking for help.
And now they had stolen not just money but lives, and persons. Rosalind. His first love, whom he now loved as the sister he’d never had. Harkness. The man she loved, whom he respected, and called friend.
Spence should be glad he is not here. He should be glad I cannot order Tauton and Goutier to hold him down while I finish matters.
This was not like him, and he knew it, but he was not himself. This anger left no room for Devon Winterbourne to exist.
“What can we do now?” Devon asked the officers sitting knee to knee with him and Clara.
“We can’t go out there in this filthy weather,” said Tauton. His voice was flat and final. He was angry, too, as was Goutier. Good. He was not alone in this burning, black place. He had allies here.
“But even when it clears, then what?” Goutier asked, frustration plain in his voice. “Do we call in Layng’s constables and the militia? Risk a standoff? We don’t know who this Spence has out there with him, and we don’t know what he’s capable of.”
No one seemed to have an answer for that. The rain drummed on the carriage roof, muffling even the sounds of the horses’ hooves.
“We don’t know Spence,” whispered Clara. “But we do know Elizabeth.”
The men waited. Devon forced his way past his own anger, so that he could be present, because she needed him now. Not his fury. Him.
“Elizabeth is practical,” Clara said. “And she is stubborn. She believes there is a solution for every problem, and she will try them all before she gives up.” She swallowed. He willed her to be strong. “If she did this for money, then we should offer her money.”
“Miss Kinsdale, are you saying that we should offer a ransom?” asked Tauton. “And then what?”
Clara’s mouth moved. Probably, Devon was the only one who was close enough to see the words her lips shaped. Let them go.
But that was not what she said out loud. “Devon and I can go to this cottage. We can bring money, we can promise”—she faltered—“we can promise they will be allowed to go free. But we have men in place to follow them once they do leave.”
Devon looked to Goutier and Tauton. They were ignoring him, and looking instead at each other.
“It’s a start,” said Goutier. “Might offer us a chance.”
“I’m assuming, your grace can lay hands on the ready?” asked Tauton gruffly.
“I can,” Devon told them. “We can set out just as soon as the weather clears.”
“Then that’s what we’ll do,” said Goutier. “We’ll just have to hope that until then Harkness and Miss Thorne have all their usual luck.”